


Quite an Extraordinary Boy

by glacis



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex goes into exile and discovers compensations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quite an Extraordinary Boy

_Quite an Extraordinary Boy. Spoilers for the premier episode. Notes at the end of the story._

One embarrassment too many, and here he was, exiled in Nowhereville. Smallville was an appropriate name. Small town with small people with small aspirations.

Not the place for Lex Luthor, regardless of his father's displeasure.

It wasn't as if this distaste was a new development in what passed for their relationship. He'd felt it since birth, intensified since the Incident, growing with each perceived shortfall in everything he accomplished. But this was ridiculous.

Exile to a fertilizer plant in the one place on Earth that still had the power to give him nightmares.

Glaring impassively at the dull brown marble facade of his tiny corner of the Luthor fiefdom, he muttered "Thanks, dad."

It was no more than he'd come to expect. The sooner he got on with it, the sooner he could figure out a way to get out of it.

The day was as frustrating as he'd predicted when he got out of bed that morning. The people were slow and irritating. The business itself was disgusting. The books were impeccable, of course, because his father expected no less, but that left nothing for Lex to _do_. By the time he slammed the door of the Porsche between himself and the stultifying mundanity that was the precursor for the rest of his life, he badly needed to work off some steam. Since he couldn't actually kill any of the simpletons he'd been forced to interact with all day, he contented himself for the moment with driving as fast as possible from the plant to his mansion.

Not that there was anything worth rushing toward there, either. But the speed felt good, the power of the engine harnessed to his command. His cell phone rang and he reached for it, glancing down at the keypad as he punched the button.

When he glanced up, it was too late.

He barely had time to identify the log across the road as a bundle of barbed wire, his feet already stamping on clutch and brake, his phone tossed aside as one hand battled the steering wheel and the other clamped on the gear shift, before he was on it. Time seemed to slow, his senses amazingly acute, as he could actually hear each tire as it exploded. Then the Porsche slewed completely out of control. He had the impression of a guard rail and, horrifyingly, the flash of a young man's startled face, huge eyes, pale skin, a blur of dark hair, at the moment of impact. Their eyes met, and he knew in that instant neither would survive the crash.

The man's face disappeared as the horizon spun, Lex gripping the wheel uselessly in both fists as the car went over the side, into the river. Then there was nothing but the rush of displaced air, the implosion as the windshield gave, a brief sensation of cold and wet and pain in his head, his chest, his wrists, his back, his ankles, then nothing.

No. Not nothing.

Flying.

He looked down, not as surprised as he should have been, to see the young man kneeling over his body. They appeared to be kissing. He smiled, then looked away. Smallville was spread out before him, a beauty in the view that was invisible on the ground. There was a peace there he'd never felt, and for the first time it struck him that there was more to his life than his father's expectations. He simply had to reach out, gather it in the palm of his hand, and savor it. On _his_ terms.

Then the pain hit again, in his chest, in his throat, and he was choking. Water bubbled out of his mouth, and he spat, ridding himself of the filthy river water, if not its taste. He coughed again and opened his eyes. The sky was bright, although not as bright as it had been when it surrounded him. A face moved into his field of vision and he blinked. It was the wet, concerned face of the young man he'd been certain he'd killed.

Of course, he'd been certain he'd die, too, and that hadn't been right, either.

The next, overriding thought came to him that the face was beautiful. Water trailed over sharp cheekbones, along a strong jaw, dripped from wavy dark hair and caught on long lashes. His eyes were blue. His mouth was -- Lex caught himself before he reached up and found out how that mouth tasted. "I could have sworn I hit you."

"If you did, I'd be ... I'd be dead." The words stumbled, as if he'd just had a thought and it wasn't pleasant.

Lex's hand reached up of its own accord and touched a thick clump of wet hair, curving over the young man's forehead. It felt like silk under his fingers. The blue eyes widened, and confusion shared space with concern in his expression.

"Are you all right?"

He had to think upon the question. 'All right' wasn't quite the description he'd choose. Stunned, re-evaluating his notion of the future, caught up in the unexpected magnetism of the young man who'd saved his life, he didn't know what to say. So he said nothing.

They stayed there for long moments, Lex staring up at the young man, watching the flush start in the pale cheeks, thinking too many thoughts to make sense of any of them. A siren broke the strange tension between them, and the young man shook his head, water flying from his hair, resembling a chocolate lab coming in from the lake. With a shy half-smile, he mumbled something too low for Lex to hear and scrambled from his knees to start up the embankment, meeting the patrolman on his way down. Lex's hand came up again, but fell back to his side. The young man didn't notice.

Lex took several shallow breaths, forcing himself back to reality, and very carefully sat up. His head swam and nausea threatened, but he refused to give in to either, and after a few minutes they subsided before his will. When he looked up again, an ambulance was pulling in behind the patrol car, and the young man was leading the patrolman back down toward where Lex sat.

His head was beginning to pound, but he fell back on a lifetime of training and didn't let it show. The accident was plainly that, an accident, and if he found out who the fool was who'd dropped barbed wire in the middle of the highway he'd have the man beaten with it. A medic checked him and wrapped a blanket around him, and he watched the same efficient procedure take place with the young man who'd saved his life. Then the patrolman took out his pad, and Lex forced himself to listen, to take care of the technicalities. It took very little of his attention. He finished the straightforward recitation of the facts, staring with bemusement at his rescuer all the while, and the patrolman thanked him. The sound of frantic shouting caught Lex's attention, drawing it reluctantly from the young man.

A scruffy, middle-aged, blond farmer-type scrabbled down the embankment, heading for the young man like a homing pigeon spotting its roost. The man's hands were shaking as he reached out, cupping the young man's shoulders through the blanket as if to reassure himself the boy was real.

"Clark! Son, are you all right?"

Clark. The young man's name was Clark. Lex turned the name over on his tongue and decided he liked it. In that instant another memory flashed. A nightmare image of his father, standing over him, uncovering him from the detritus the meteor shower had covered him in. The expression on his face was clear, even to a boy traumatized beyond belief. Horrified rejection. Distaste, muted once his composure was regained but never quite leaving his eyes every time he looked at Lex from that day on. The man's voice pulled him from the memory, barely restrained fury lacing the words.

"Who's the maniac who was driving that car?"

So protective. He wondered what it might be like to have a protective parent, then dismissed the thought as irrelevant. Holding his hand out to the man, he answered, "That would be me. Lex Luthor."

A fierce glare raked him, then the man stripped off his jacket and tenderly placed it around Clark's shoulders. Lex suspected it was timed so the man didn't have to shake his hand, because he'd plainly seen the gesture. He withdrew, fingers clenching around the edge of the blanket. At least the man gave him the courtesy of an answer.

"I'm Jonathan Kent, and this is my son."

Clark Kent. Lex looked at the young man, who was blushing slightly at his father's protective air. "Thanks for saving my life." Clark looked up at him.

"I'm sure you would've done the same thing." He sounded completely sincere. And innocent. Lex watched Jonathan help Clark up and begin to guide him away.

Not wanting the strange interlude to be over yet, he once again fell back on training. Always turn a disadvantage to an advantage. Never be in debt to anyone. Always reverse an obligation to be on the strong side. When you find something of value, obtain it.

Unfortunately, the father stood in the way of the son. Lex said quickly, "You have quite an extraordinary boy there, Mr. Kent. If there's any way I can repay you -"

Jonathan didn't let him finish the sentence. He leaned in close, and Lex could see from the heat in his eyes that the words that came out were severely edited for content. "Drive slower."

It was better than 'rot in hell,' the phrase he had a feeling trembled on Jonathan's tongue. And it left the door open for a different approach. Lex watched the pair leave, the father's hand on his son's shoulder, affection evident between them. Clark shook a little, from shock no doubt, as his father shook, rage barely in check even as he hovered over his boy. Lex watched until they drove away in a beaten-up Ford truck. Then he turned to see the tow truck winch the wreck of his Porsche up from the river. The roof was peeled back like the lid of a can. The front was completely destroyed. It was a miracle he'd survived.

They'd survived.

Thoughts of Clark followed him home. He nodded his thanks to the patrolman who dropped him off, then took a luxurious bath, soaking out the aches from the accident. It came to him as he sluiced water over his head, closing his eyes and sighing at the warmth. The rusty old Ford. A way to initiate contact.

He called his secretary and gave her instructions. By nine a.m. the next morning, as a replacement silver Porsche identical to the one he'd totaled was delivered to his mansion, a bright shining red and white Ford F150 truck was delivered to the Kent farm. Along with it came a card, his trademark initials on it. He'd smiled as he wrote it.

_Dear Clark, Drive safely. Always in your debt. The Maniac in the Porsche._

It was one way to make an impression.

His sleep that night was restless and plagued with dreams. They had a kaleidoscope quality, surreal images and sounds swirling around him. His father's voice stabbing into him as he turned away, closed his eyes, hid his face. The peace of the sky, clouds surrounding him, the future spread out below. Wide blue eyes in an innocent face, and a warm mouth closing over his, pulling him back to the earth. Sending him soaring in altogether different ways.

The dream took an erotic turn from there. Clark's body under the drenched clothes trembled as Lex drew the wet fabric away. The strong hands that had pulled him from the river were gentle on his skin, and the angled face fit perfectly framed by his own hands. There was innocence and wonder between them, two emotions he'd never felt. He stroked against Clark as Clark moved against him, and he woke with a start as his body convulsed. Staring at the mess on his stomach, he absently wiped himself with the corner of the sheet and decided Smallville had its charms. And he was going to enjoy them.

Thoroughly.

The following day at the plant nearly undermined his newfound determination to enjoy himself. As a result, he left early. Called his fencing master and had her fly in from Metropolis. Went home before lunch and worked off his adrenaline overload in the dusty grand ballroom of the mansion. As usual, he fought as hard as possible. He lasted a little longer this time, but also as usual, she eventually prevailed. Irritated with himself at his failure, ignoring his father's snide voice in the back of his mind, he drew back his arm and let fly with the foil.

Taking off his mask, he looked over to where he'd flung it. The tip was imbedded in the wall next to the door to the depth of nearly an inch. Less than three inches from it stood Clark, eyes wide again, staring unblinkingly at Lex over the quivering length of the foil. Were the boy's eyes ever anything but wide? The adrenaline he'd worked off all afternoon flooded back with a vengeance. He found himself nearly vibrating with nervous tension. Striding over to yank the foil from the wall, he said, "Clark? I didn't see you."

Clark finally blinked at him. "I, uh ... I buzzed, but no one answered."

So much for security. "How'd you get through the gate?" Not all his visitors would be as harmless, nor as welcome, as Clark.

"I kinda squeezed through the bars." The words were muttered and rushed. Lex looked at him. Clark hurried on. "If this is a bad time -"

"Oh, no. No, I think Heike has sufficiently kicked my ass for the day." He was ready for action of another sort entirely. He tossed his mask to his fencing master and returned to Clark, like an iron filing drawn to a magnet.

"This is a great place."

He sounded as if he meant it. But then, he'd been raised on a farm. Lex smirked at him. "Yeah? If you're dead and in the market for a place to haunt." He walked past Clark into the hall.

"I meant it's roomy."

Now Clark sounded as if he was trying to reassure Lex he'd meant no insult. Lex found the whole situation amusing. He found Clark more than a little arousing. He pivoted to face the young man, spreading his hands to indicate his 'grand' surroundings. "It's the Luthor ancestral home. Or so my father claims." He headed for the stairs, intent on the bar in the weight room. Fencing parched him and lust made his mouth dry. The two together provoked a raging thirst. "He had it shipped over from Scotland, stone by stone." Clark was still gazing around the hall.

"Yeah, I remember the trucks rolled through town for weeks, but nobody ever moved in."

Lex paused on the steps and looked over at Clark. "My father had no intention of living here. He's never even stepped through the front door." The question he expected inevitably followed.

"Then why'd he ship it over?"

He gave the inevitable answer. "Because he could."

It might as well be Lionel Luthor's personal motto. One of the few things Lex would cheerfully emulate about his father, and he did. He ran lightly up the stairs. Clark followed, of course. Once in the weight room, Lex began stripping off his gear, heading for the sideboard. Taking a bottle of water, he called over his shoulder, "So, how's the new ride?"

Clark hovered in the doorway. "That's why I'm here." He dug in his pocket for the keys.

That didn't sound promising. Lex looked at the plastic bottle top, bending under the force of his grip, and deliberately relaxed his fingers. "What's the matter? You don't like it?" He turned and walked over toward Clark, taking a long drink of water.

"No, it's not that." He made an abortive movement, a shrug stifled before it could break free. "I can't keep it."

Ah. Daddy dearest. Not Clark's choice. Lex turned on the charm. "Clark. You saved my life. I think it's the least I can do." Clark stared at his feet. Lex decided he looked edible when he did that. "Your father doesn't like me, does he." It was a statement, not a question. Clark's mouth started to open and Lex gently overrode him. "It's okay." He ran a hand over his pate and turned to look in the mirror. "I've been bald since I was nine. I'm used to people judging me before they get to know me." The truth, if not the whole truth.

"It's nothing personal. He's just not crazy about your dad." More reassurance. The boy was priceless.

"Figures the apple doesn't fall far from the tree? Understandable." He watched Clark in the mirror. "What about you, Clark? Did you fall far from the tree?"

He was intrigued by the strange mixture of emotions that crossed Clark's face. Some anger, some pain, a lot of confusion. None of them were given voice. Eventually, Clark gave that odd little stifled shrug again.

"I better go." He handed the keys to Lex. "Thanks for the truck."

No. That wasn't the end of it. Lex called out to him as he reached the door. "Clark." The young man turned to look at him, all wide-eyed innocent inquiry, and for the first time in his life Lex Luthor fell in love. On impulse, he asked, "Do you think a man can fly?"

Clark supplied what he thought was the punch line. "Sure. In a plane."

Lex couldn't quite suppress his tiny grin. "No. I'm not talking about that." He stared intensely at Clark. "I'm talking about soaring through the clouds with nothing but air beneath you."

The look he got made it clear he was being humored. "People can't fly, Lex."

He didn't know how to make Clark understand, but it was imperative that he did. He said quietly, "I did. After the accident, when my heart stopped. It was the most exhilarating two minutes of my life. I flew over Smallville, and for the first time, I didn't see a dead end. I saw a new beginning." He moved about the room as he spoke, memories from the previous day and the pure shock of life moving through him making him restless. He looked back at Clark. "Thanks to you, I have a second chance." He stepped closer. "We are the future, Clark." Hesitant eyes looked up at him from a downcast face. "And I don't want anything to stand in the way of our friendship."

He wouldn't allow it.

Clark gave him a quick, shy smile, gone almost as soon as it appeared, then turned and trotted down the stairs. Lex listened to his footsteps until he heard the front door close. Then he turned to his weights and worked out for two solid hours. It was punishing and when he finished he could barely drag himself into the shower, but it worked. When he fell into bed, he went right to sleep.

No nightmares.

Only wet dreams. Twinges in his thighs from fencing and in his arms and shoulders from the weights worked into his sleeping mind. He was back in the weight room again, and Clark was there as well, but this time events went as they should, not as they had.

Words echoed between them. Nothing would stand in the way of them being together. Lex raised his hand and cupped Clark's chin, drawing his face up, moving closer to touch their mouths together. Clark tasted as sweet as fine Belgian chocolate, dark and rich, swamping Lex's senses. They stumbled to a nearby bench, lips together, hands busy. Details were fuzzy, and time was honey-slow, as it was in the best dreams. They were clothed, and then they weren't. They were kissing, and then they were stretched along the bench, Lex lying over Clark, pinning him against the supple leather. He broke the kiss and looked down into dazed eyes, huge again, always, but with a fire in them to match that burning Lex from the inside out.

He laughed, and Clark smiled up at him. Then he was kissing Clark again, and he wanted to kiss Clark for the rest of his life. His mouth, his throat, the ridge of his collarbone, the rise of his nipple, the line of his rib. The definition of muscle giving way to the softness of skin lightly furred and furnace hot, as sweet in its way as Clark's mouth had been. Then Lex had Clark's erection in his mouth, and Clark was moaning, and Clark's hands were sliding over Lex's head, the thin skin there sensitized to the point that Lex nearly came from the light touch. That, and the taste of Clark coming on his tongue, and the broken sound of Lex's name strangled in Clark's throat.

Sliding back up Clark's body, relaxed over the bench, his head thrown back, Lex paused again. Caught his breath. Stared down at the man who had given him his future. Who would be his future.

Woke himself up when he came.

From looking.

He didn't sleep the rest of the night. The next day at the plant was pure hell. His skin felt too small for his body. His persistent half-hardness rubbed raw, even in silk boxers. He couldn't drink enough water to moisten his mouth. He imagined it must be what a junkie felt like, needing a fix, but refused to admit even to himself that he could be that pathetic. He'd only met Clark two days before. Surely he couldn't be that weak.

Of course, he'd never been in love before. Perhaps it was supposed to feel like he was dying from some mutated form of bubonic plague.

He tried to do as he'd always done, hold his personal life at bay until business was over. Except business was never over for a Luthor, and his personal life had always been subsumed into business, even if his father would disagree. The pull between business and Clark, the distraction of unexpected emotions and his inability to confine them, made the day longer than it should have been. It was fully dark by the time he climbed into his new Porsche and left the plant.

That made it easy to see the trespasser leaving the grounds. His headlights picked out a figure crouched next to the wire fence he'd had constructed around the corn field where the Incident occurred. He stopped the car and started to step out, intent on challenging the intruder. The man turned toward him, and his memory played a trick, dealing a card fraught with anxiety. The clock turned back twelve years, and the man he saw was the boy he'd seen, tied to a cross, blood on his chest, pain in his voice as he begged for help. Help Lex had been unable to extend, as he ran for his life before the fury of the meteor shower.

He shook his head, and the vision faded. The figure had disappeared as well, leaving Lex unsure if he'd actually seen a man or if his mind was playing more tricks on him. Turning back toward the car, the wind caught at his collar, and he heard a noise.

A voice.

A whisper. Crystal clear, filled with pain. "Help me, please."

This time, he could, and he felt compelled to try. Reaching into the glove box he dug out his flashlight and ducked through the fence. The corn seemed as high as it had when he was a child, an alien landscape about which he still had nightmares. His feet knew where he was going even if his mind didn't, and he found himself nearing the place where the boy on the cross had frightened him.

The first thing saw was a tiny green glow against bare, goose-pimpled skin. Coming closer, he saw that the shadowed figure half-hidden by cornstalks was a man, his body stripped to his boxers and tied to a post with thick rope. He wasn't moving. Lex shone his flashlight from top to bottom of the still figure and his stomach clenched.

He'd read about things like this happening. A hate crime, a nasty vicious act by stupid, dangerous bastards who deserved to be gutted and left to bleed out. A year or so before, in another state, a young man had been lured to a remote spot, robbed, beaten horribly, tied to a fence and left to die of exposure. This young man looked dead, his head hanging down, blood smeared across his chest, his skin blue in the dim light from the moon and the flashlight. Hatred speared through Lex, at the animals who had done this, and he forced himself to step forward. To help, if it wasn't already too late.

Close enough to make out details by then, he flicked the flashlight up, illuminating the boy's face. His stomach unclenched and rolled, and he nearly lost his dinner. The only saving grace of what he found was that the body wasn't dead. The red smear wasn't blood.

"Clark?" He ran forward the last few steps. "Oh, Jesus. Who did this to you?"

Ducking behind the frame to which Clark was bound, Lex made short work of the knots. Before he could make it back around to help him down, Clark fell face-forward onto the ground.

"Doesn't matter."

It was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course it mattered. He had to know who did it so he knew whom to punish. Lex watched Clark scramble in the corn for his clothes. He was moving well, and that relieved some of Lex's worry. He couldn't have been tied there very long if he could move that fast. Still, he should be checked out. "Clark, you need to see a doctor!"

Clark turned to face him, crouched over in the corn, his clothes bundled against his chest. The red paint, as Lex could now see it was, smeared, and he wondered what the 'S' stood for, and who had painted it, and how long it would take to find them. He wanted to hurt them. Now. For hurting Clark.

"I'll be okay." He sounded like he meant it, but then, Clark had been reassuring Lex since they'd met. He gave Lex a brief, crooked smile and disappeared into the field.

"At least let me give you a ride!" Lex called to his retreating back, but Clark was already gone.

Lex started back the way he'd come, playing the flashlight ahead of him, and stopped when the beam picked up a dull green stone. He knelt to pick it up, turning it over in his hand. There was no trace of the bright glow it held when it had been lying against Clark's chest. Slipping the necklace in his pocket, he made his way back to the Porsche and drove home much more slowly than was his wont. His mind was busy, his emotions numb. It had been a long day topped by a disorienting experience in a corn field that already held extremely disturbing memories. He had too many unanswered questions.

How had he, and Clark, lived through an accident that should by rights have killed both of them? Why had Clark reacted strangely when Lex asked about his father? How had he heard Clark calling for help and known where to find him? Why did the green stone sparkle when it was around Clark's neck, and not in Lex's hand? Who had done such a vicious thing to Clark, and why? Was it because Clark was gay? Another crime with no motive but hate behind it? Or was there something else about Clark that made him a target?

Rage burned coldly at the realization that someone, or several people, had hurt Clark. They would pay. Severely. It wasn't a matter of debt, but of principle. No one damaged what belonged to the Luthors, and Clark was Lex's.

But as he went through his evening routine, stretching, working out, showering, his mind replayed the events in the field. The anger and fear filtered away until all that remained was the visual imprint of Clark. How he'd looked, and how he might look, if he was stripped with erotic purpose, not criminal intent. If the bow of his head was the result of a different sort of fatigue. If his nipples were pebbled from lust and the pinpricks drawing his skin up were from shivering with arousal, instead of cold and fear.

Lex stood under the hot water, closing his eyes against the spray, the better to appreciate his fantasy image. He decided that one day he would see that image in reality, absolutely certain that it would happen. No one ever told a Luthor 'no' and made it stick. There was always a way. He simply had to find it.

There was more to Smallville, more to his second chance, and more to Clark Kent than he expected. He looked forward to uncovering it. All of it.

Particularly Clark Kent.

**end**

**Note** : In canon, Lex is twenty one. Also in canon, Clark's a freshman, but he must be the school's oldest freshman (I thought at first they meant a freshman at college, and _that_ I'd believe). He's probably seventeen or eighteen in Earth years (twelve years since he was found, and he was at least five then by the size of him); who knows how old he'd be on his home planet, but there's no way he's fourteen. I figure his parents passed him off as an early bloomer, or started him late in school with some excuse for the missing birth certificate, but he still looks older than everyone else in school. Including the football players. Perhaps those around him are simply used to seeing him as they expect to see him, a slow-moving, geeky kid with his nose buried in a book. From an outside observer's perspective, Lex is reacting to him as an adult to an adult. He's gay, not a pedophile. At least, that's how I'm writing them. I have the same perceived-age problem with the characters on Dawson's Creek. All the 'teenagers' look like they can legally drink, and have for the past three years. Of course, that doesn't make Pacey any less cute. Quite the contrary ...


End file.
